


(Bon) Jouir

by DeadAngel_DoNotEat



Series: Snack Fics! [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bottom Hannibal Lecter, Cannonically they are verse, Caught him with his pants down, Drabble, Hannibal (TV) Season/Series 03, Hannibal in his biker jacket, LITERALLY, M/M, at least in this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 17:31:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19010503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeadAngel_DoNotEat/pseuds/DeadAngel_DoNotEat
Summary: Will runs into Hannibal in Paris instead of Palerma. Neither of them are prepared.///I just needed Will to see biker Hannibal and appreciate it as much as I and Antony Dimmond did (his name Is Antony, not Anthony). What better way to introduce it to him than in mid-public coitus?





	(Bon) Jouir

**Author's Note:**

> Even the bike name sounds sensual; Thruxton. If anyone was curious about the model in 3x01.  
> Anyway, I just wanted to add this to the pool of ao3, since no one seems to have done it yet.  
> Also, the title is a pun. I think. I'm not all that good at French yet, but I think it's a pun.

It is with wry amusement that Will Graham strolls the streets of Paris at night, a day's distance from Palermo. Even separated, Hannibal takes him to places he'd never been. A city of romance and its cloying aroma of death and decay. It reminds him of the various dishes Hannibal presented with a flourish of vowel stuffed French. The names of which rolled off his memory as soon as the plates were laid, overridden by the artistry and relish. Regardless of moral issues, he can't deny that the meat tasted spectacular. Just like his words, sweet and tender whilst shrouded in lies.

But he does remember the Ortolans. The heat and subtle taste of Armagnac and flames as the weight of it rested against his tongue. The burst of flavour and warmth as he crushed the fragile bird between his teeth. Bones, guts, and all. Unabashed in the face of God. Hannibal had called it a rite of passage.  
And what changes did he undergo as he swallowed the creature whole and wove lies and half truths about the euphoria of killing?

Will sighs and looks up from his contemplation. It's late, but the city never really goes dark. Low yellow lights flood the quiet streets, combining with his weariness to give him the feeling of floating in warmth.

He notices the sleek black café racer before he hears the moaning. And even then, it's the single breathy grunt that has his attention flying to a darkened alleyway.  
Before he can be appalled at himself for making the association, his eyes tell him that yes, that is Hannibal Lecter currently pushed up against a grimy wall in the precarious privacy of the shadows, taking a reaming from a very appreciative stranger.

While Will struggles with the suspicion that his mind has finally deteriorated far enough to hallucinate _this_ , his sensory inputs assault him with the details of the debauchery taking place in front of him.  
Hannibal has one arm braced against the wall. The stranger's scarf wound tightly around the other, pulling him close. His hair is down like that morning an eternity ago, when the doctor was his lighthouse in the rolling turmoil of his instability. Before he found out about the angler fish behind the lure. They shift and flutter over his closed eyes with each thrust.  
Further dissociating from Hannibal's usual prim and sophisticated image is the outfit. The black leather biker jacket, while still elegant, has an air of youthful rebellion. And black leather pants, tight enough not to fall to his ankles from where they are - where they're -

All he can manage is a choked out "Christ.."

Hannibal practically jumps - as much as his partner's embrace allows him. They both stare at Will, Hannibal like a deer caught in headlights, the stranger merely with a raised brow. Hannibal's expression is another thing Will has never seen or had imagined he would see.

"Will."

A hoarse whisper. Will has heard that name fall from his lips a thousand times, but never like this. Never with flustered embarrassment and vestigial arousal. Even in his darkest fantasies, it had seemed blasphemous to imagine him as anything other than serenely composed. The stranger's brow rises higher as he pulls out - and christ.. Will's eyes can't help but slide down at the obscene sound it makes. He starts shaking.

"Well, I'll leave you to your.." The man looks between the two frozen men. The amusement in his voice mixed with awkward annoyance is gratingly insouciant. But neither Hannibal nor Will can gather enough composure to glare at him, much less murder him for his insolence.

"Till fate conjoins us again, then. À bientôt, Boris!" And with that last innuendo, the man waltzes out of the alleyway, leaving Will alone with the man he crossed the ocean for.

"..So," Hannibal coughs as he picks up the helmet from his bike. His bike. Will didn't know Hannibal could ride a motorcycle. But then again, he didn't know him to be the type to have sex in a dirty alleyway with a stranger either. The man in question holds out the helmet toward him and has the audacity to smirk.

"Going my way?"

**Author's Note:**

> I can't say I'm happy with it, but I just wanted to get it out of the way. Critics are very welcome - don't pull punches.  
> Might add a chapter.. or two.


End file.
